Brother's Again
by LCFC
Summary: He always felt protected and cared for.


_This is a sappy, happy birthday Dean fic._

_To big brothers who love little brothers._

_I don't own them at all – which upsets me – but I'm dealing!_

"Dad"

The voice is soft, gentle and there is a hand shaking his shoulder. He shifts, muscles creaking and tries to open his eyes.

"Dad, come on," the voice is more insistent, "dinner is ready."

He opens his eyes slowly, blurred images becoming steadily clearer. He can smell disinfectant, meat and dog and he twitches his nose.

For a moment he is transported back to the motel rooms that he used to frequent in his youth. Sometimes they would smell like this and other times they were rancid, mouldy and unsanitary. His brother used to call him a girl for moaning so much and he laughs, wryly, as he remembers those taunts.

"Dad," there is no avoiding that voice now, so close to his ear. He wriggles up in his chair, his back aching, the sting of pain along the dip of his spine a painful reminder of other days, other times.

He smiles, wearily, focussing on the face in front of him. His baby girl, grey in her own hair, green eyes concerned and worried, smile tight.

He sighs; he never expected to live this long.

**00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000**

Children run through the halls, squealing. One skids on the lino and bumps his knee, bursting into tears. The older one stops for a moment, shaking his head and smiling.

"Come on Sammy," he says, gently, "suck it up."

Despite his firm words, his touch is soft and he lifts the boy to his feet, a hand ghosting through his hair, another reaching down to probe the bruised knees, rubbing tenderly.

The result is instant; the boy stops sobbing and offers a watery smile. His chubby hands reach up and hug the older, tear-stained face burying itself in his shoulder, "Thank 'u Dean," he says and the older boy smiles warm and tender.

**00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000**

Fifteen, awkward and gangly, his limbs are all over the place, wobbly and colt-like.

He waits by the cinema for an hour but the girl doesn't show. He is too old to cry but that doesn't stop the sting in his eyes or the slump of his shoulders. He is walking slowly away when he hears the low rumble of the Impala.

"Hey Sammy, want to go for Pizza?"

There is the scent of leather and the familiar shit-eating grin. No words about his aborted date, no teasing, and no snark. He gets in and slumps in the passenger seat, wanting to say he isn't hungry, that he just wants to go home.

A hand reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, so slight he could almost think he imagined it. He feels his stomach unclench and it rumbles.

"Let's go," he says.

**0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000**

Duffle bag full and tipped over, books spilling out, clothes not packed but stuffed into any available space. There is the furless bear from his childhood and his favourite knife but he leaves them on the bed, tears pouring freely down his cheeks.

He is fully prepared to walk to the bus station and he swings the duffle onto his shoulder, feeling it bang against his back, so heavy because it contains what is left of his life.

He feels the hand on his shoulder and turns. Green eyes glint and maybe the light makes it look as if they are as tear filled as his own. He bites his lip hard and wants to bury himself into that strong shoulder, to feel that reassuring touch.

"Want a lift?" The question is harsh and short. They drive to the bus station in silence but when he opens his duffle again, there are 10 $20 dollar notes in the cover of one of the books.

**00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000**

There are screams and the blonde woman is pinned to the ceiling, a nightmare come true.

Somewhere in the distance a door shatters and arms pull him from the bed, ignoring his cries, ignoring his pain.

Later he is dragged to the shower, the scent of smoke and death washed from his body, soap gently rubbed across his chest and arms, fingers rinsing his hair, helping him dress in a clean tee-shirt and sweats that are not his own but are as familiar.

He can feel the hand in his clench and unclench and he falls into an uneasy sleep, lulled by the figure by his side.

**000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000**

A stabbing pain in his back; low down against his spine. He feels the knife go in, feels the ripping of his skin and everything that lies beneath. He falls to his knees in the dirt and, instantly, feels arms go around him, protecting him, holding him up. He lets his head fall onto that firm, reliable shoulder and his eyes close.

**00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000**

She smiles at him, red-eyes mocking but afraid. Behind him he can hear cursing and swearing but he ignores it, refusing to be distracted.

It isn't pretty and it is painful and hard, but at the end of it, his brother is still standing, angry, frustrated but alive.

He forces out a reassuring grin and is, instantly, enveloped in leather clad arms. He can barely breathe, barely speak but it doesn't matter. He lets chin rest on that stubborn head and sighs, happily.

He is where he wants to be.

**00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000**

The bride is late and he is feeling hot and uncomfortable. After all the years of hunting he thought there was nothing else that could scare him, but he was wrong.

He trembles and he thrusts his hands in his pockets to hide the fact that they are shaking. He wonders if she might have changed her mind and he tells himself that he wouldn't blame her.

"Suck it up Sammy," the voice beside him is full of laughter, "it's ok, bitch, she's coming."

And, just like that, he is reassured and calm again, the music suddenly sounding up behind him.

**00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000**

He isn't really hungry, but the sight of his daughter's pale and anxious face makes him guilty and he takes a bite of the mush that is put in front of him, wondering what the hell it actually is.

She makes small talk, gossip and news of the grandkids and great grandkids. He listens, distractedly, zoning in and out, the aches in his limbs and back stronger than ever, making him tired and strangely vulnerable.

She helps him back to his room and settles him in the chair. It is late afternoon and the dust motes flicker in the sunlight, dancing like ghosts across his vision. He closes his eyes for a moment and lets his mind drift.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, tight and firm. He knows, in an instant, that it isn't his daughter; her touch is tentative, always gentle.

He opens his eyes and squints through the blur. For a moment he thinks he can hear the rumble of that old engine, hear the pounding of Metalica. He swallows his throat sore and tight.

"Suck it up bitch," a voice says and he squints even more, blaming it all on the dinner time mush and his age.

"Come on Sammy," he feels himself being hauled up and he suddenly feels lighter, all the pains gone in an instant, his eyesight seems sharper and he realises he is standing in his own room.

There is an old, old man in the chair. His sparse hair is white and there are lines around his eyes and mouth. The clothes he wears are ill-fitting, hanging off his thin frame and his limbs are bent and twisted.

"Nice."

Beside him, Dean grins, looking much the same as he did all those years ago, all those decades ago, when monsters were real and the Winchesters ruled supreme.

"What are you doing here?" he says, staring down at the old man, a strange realisation dawning and fading at the same time.

"Came to collect," his brother grins and holds out his arms. "You've been hanging around here too long, times a wasting."

"I've missed you," his voice sounds strange, younger, stronger and he feels a grin stretch his mouth, his first one for quite a while.

"Well, we can't all be octogenarians, Sammy" his brother smiles, warmly, "trust you to hang around for so freakin' long."

Sam reaches forward and lets his brother hold him, strong arms around him one last time.

He lets his head rest on that strong and familiar shoulder and lets go.

End


End file.
